I’d been keeping an eye on the forecast all week. Despite the impending winter weather about to set in, Friday was a surprisingly mild day, without a hint of icy breath of the whiteout to come.
But the signs were there. Hundreds of clamorous geese were meeting up in the skies overhead, finally full from feasting on fall grains, and leaving the farmer’s fields for more welcoming climates.
It was a good day for a walk. A day to collect pine and spruce cones, before they disappeared until spring.
The fading afternoon light with its gloomy quality, was comforting to me, the moody light enhancing the trees still adorned with berries, and causing me to take notice of every pop of colour before the harsh white bleached the world colourless. The berries cried “Look at us. Study our bold colour and chaotic lines.”
The icy brook held leaves in its grip. Beneath the mysterious bubble patterns lurked dark and ugly things, just below the surface. Trash, an old tire, and more trash. But if you can look past all of that, around it, see the beauty despite all the mess, well, I guess that can be a metaphor for life, can’t it?
The beavers bit off more than they could chew. Another life metaphor, perhaps?
The last bits of colour from the longest and most lovely fall I can remember asked for remembrance as they faded in the dusk, awaiting their fate. Will anyone remember this season once the dead of winter holds us in its icy grip?
And as my own season changes, what will I pause to take note of and remember? Will I pause to reflect on all the bittersweet moments, the good, the bad, and the ugly, or does it hurt a bit too much to reflect, just yet? Memories to pause and cherish, or will they be scattered like the leaves?